


Sleep Until You Wake

by motleystitches (furius)



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Age Difference, First Time, M/M, from prince to pauper, wanderings of the dwarves of Erebor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2017-11-26 01:39:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/645117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/furius/pseuds/motleystitches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even far away from Erebor and bitter with memory, Thorin still wishes to dream of the summer Thranduil spent by his side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> A mix of book and movie canon.

He could hear his mother whispering with his grandmother. He heard his own name. She thought he was asleep. The first day, the second- he had been nodding off even at dinner, but today, his hands hurt and the pain kept him awake.

He touched the flimsy bandage with a fingertip, still dry, which was a good sign. Of his body, the hands healed the quickest, but the night was surely half gone and it seemed the even the skin had not healed. Work began at dawn. His muscles ached even at the thought of holding a hammer, but he must. He would grow stronger, be more precise with his strikes.

Apprentices in the forge, mannish boys his height, had looked askance at the way he hesitated at first, but Dwalin was there along with other dwarves. Thorin knew the theory of the work, but had preferred the practise of arms. No one had minded in Erebor. He swallowed back the hot grief in his chest. In Erebor, Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King Under the Mountain, was not expected to labour at the anvil.

He caressed the hard edge of the book beneath his flat pillow. He had not opened it even once. The night came quickly when the day was given to work. He wondered if the books and the scrolls in the libraries had suffered dragon-fire, whether the gilt on their spines had now been mixed with the gold in the carvings, in the instruments, now melted to nothing. He shifted, trying to find drier patch of pillow beneath his face.

“Stop moving around,” murmured Frerin, “you'll let in the cold and wake the baby.”

Dis was not quite a baby, but if they were still in Erebor, she would still be in the nursery instead of being settled between her brothers. There weren't enough beds even when the king's family had a cottage to themselves. Four rooms, walls just thick enough to keep out the draft from dwarves and mice. Thorin could hear them skittering across the floorboards.

Smaug had not left Dale unmolested when he came for dwarvish gold, but the dwarves had hoards consealed in secret places, not wealth, still enough that they would not see their people starve for the journey north, if they were careful. They saw beggars alongside the road and they could not spare a single coin, a single loaf of bread, a single delay of debt if the debtor had means. Thorin held jealously onto the book he took from one of the hoards and had no time to read. Every night, his mother and grandmother went over the figures of their possessions while his father and grandfather spoke the names of friends, allies, kin- as if by speaking these names could conjure a great army and take back their home.

His grandmother was speaking of mines and consulting his grandfather regarding claims and rights. Thorin didn't know if kings negotiated matters such as mining rights when he should have the authority of an entire realm. But was he a king if they no longer had kingdom? King of Durin's Folk seemed a hollow title when not all the folk would remain. Still, perhaps king was a title with its own authority and one could be king even without possessing anything as long as one would willingly bear the fate of his people.

Aside from his grandfather, he knew no other living king except for Thranduil, and it still seemed strange to think of Thranduil a king with his own realm and halls and soldiery when he had been-

Thorin, annoyed, slipped out of bed, and after making sure that Dis was safely cacooned and in no danger of rolling out, went to the main room.

“You're still awake,” his mother said, her eyes went to his hands. Thorin held them behind his back.

“I can't sleep. I heard you speaking. I should go to the mines.”

“It's not necessary,” his grandmother said sharply. “You'll remain in the town and when spring comes and we go to Iron Hills, you will remain there and be fostered in Gror's halls along with Frerin.”

“I should be with you, with the people,” Thorin answered. He turned to his mother. “How could I eat and sleep knowing that you wander in the wilds? Would you have me guilty of abandoning those who are still with us?”

“Thorin, you're still young,” she answered. “The work in the mines is hard and these are ancient mines that have fallen into disrepair. Everyone can see that your heart is true and that if not for circumstances-”

Thorin interrupted. “Even in Erebor, others my age not of king's blood have long begun their apprenticeships. I don't have time to learn how to make nails or shoe horses when we must have means to live.” The women flinched. “I will go to the mines and there will be those who could teach me if they've time to spare. I am strong enough for the work and other skills would come with time. What do you say, Grandfather King?”

His grandfather didn't stir himself beside the fire, his hands twisting themselves on each other. He sat with his head and beard bending toward the shadows and remained silent, but Thrain spoke: “Mother, if he wants to go, let him. He would be safe among those we send with him. The dwarves of old had wandered before they founded kingdoms. Perhaps he'll find another kingdom in our ancient mines. ”

His grandmother exchanged a quick glance with his mother, their face troubled, but said no more against his going. When spring came, Thorin was among the dwarves who took the long road to open up the ancient mines in Ered Luin. 

-=-=

He woke in a cold sweat to light laughter. The darkness remained. Perhaps he was still asleep?

Then the words winded down the cavern: “Are you all right?”

Thorin drew a deep breath. His moved his arms, then his legs. Someone landed beside him, but on their feet.

“Knocked his head, I think,” Bofur turned to the others staring down at them. “The prince is here.”

“Don't call me that.”

“As you wish, you majesty,” Bofur said. “See, right as rain, if you can still complain.” He offered a hand to Thorin.

These parts of the mines were still undoubtedly dwarvish, the roofs so low that Thorin bent his head forward as they walked carefully through the tunnels, the structure half-finished and worn with age. According to what records and recollections they could scavenge, the delving of these had been abandoned in favour of richer seams found elsewhere. In these times, Durin's Folk could no longer choose.

The ore so far had been of good quality. While they still had smiths and artisans among them, a living could be made with careful economy. The majority of the folk of Erebor had chosen to settle with their kin in the Iron Hills or else scattered, but a number of families had remained loyal to their lord, and Thorin wished that a good report would be had of their people. Even if they no longer had great halls or great feasts, they were not beggars.

And, if rumours were true, if the wishes of his father's letters would be fulfilled, the ore and the iron form them could soon serve a greater purpose than buying clothes and seedlings.

When they emerged from the passageways, dusk was settling. Food had been prepared. A precious block of salt had been delivered from a nearby town.

When they were talking to the man, his son sitting beside him jumped down from the cart and walked over to Thorin. The boy, not quite tall as Thorin, had heard that dwarves could tell metal at a glance; he wondered if they could spare a look at the pin he found in a forest.

“Elvish,” said Dori.

“It is only tin,” Thorin said, though he wanted it. It was beautiful.

“I will give it to you for nothing,” the boy said after a moment, the disappointment in his face disappeared. “If you let me tug your beard.”

All at once, a hush fell. Thorin clenched his hands. The boy's father noticed the silence around him and called away his ill-mannered son, though he made no apologies to the dwarves he had offended.

It hurt, still, to be reminded how far they had fallen. He would've not have hurt a child. The boy had dropped the pin in the haste to leave.

“Elves,” Thorin said, staring gloomily at it “They mock us from afar.”

Balin picked it up. “It's only a trinket, lad.”

“I mean on the day. They were there and only watched us as the dragons burned us out of our homes.”

“Were there elves?” Bombur asked, portioning out the food.

“You didn't see them?”

“Can't say I did. Did you?”

The dwarves in line looked at each other. A few shrugged. Others closed their eyes.

“Too busy running for my life,” Bifur said.

“I tripped over my skirt and saw them,” one said. “They were armored and there was a giant horned horse.”

“Why were they there?”

“Do you remember?”

The question was directed to Thorin. Sometimes he forget they were not people of Thror's court. Had it only be a year since he himself had left it? It seemed yesterday since entire court were still full of whispers and talk. King Thranduil came out of Mirkwood but only few times in a hundred years. His comings and goings that season had been frequent. 

Thranduil had promised to come, and if once Thorin thought he had known the reason, the day proved his own ignorance. Did Thranduil eyes see the shadow of Smaug as they passed Esgaroth? Did he suspect it? The elves of Mirkwood had looked so warlike on that hilltop that Thorin had hoped.

“Elves, they do what they like,” he said with bitterness. “What care they have of other folks? We are nothing to them. They speak and look fair, but words are games to them. _We_ are but small games to them, sport for their long lives.”

“I thought there's history of friendship between the two peoples.”

“A long time ago,” Thorin said. “And in an even more distant past there's story of wars between our races. If there had ever been true friendship between elves and dwarves, that friendship had long ended before the first stone in Erebor had been hewn.”

His mood disturbed them. 

“We've not your learning,” said Bofur eventually. Thorin did not know whether it was meant to mock. 

He took his bowl and said nothing. He remained silent as the talk turned to other matters, a song provided a pleasant distraction. They were weary. Sleep would provide the balm. Tomorrow, the shaft in the new section of the mine need to be widened. They need to sound the walls. A thousand matters required their minds to rest.

Nevertheless, after his bath, Thorin lay in his crude bed and tried to keep his eyes open.

Thranduil had laughed when he first heard Thorin's attempt.

“I've yet to see a dwarf attempt an elven sleep, but then, I've never seen a dwarf sleep,” he had said, still looking up at the sky. He shifted to make room for Thorin so that they sat side-by-side.

“Where does your mind travel when your body rests?”

“Memories and dreams” Thranduil turned to look at him; his hair had caught the moonlight and flowed like rivulets of silver down his shoulders. “I've lived a long time. My mind travel strange paths of the past, too many to count.”

“What about before you had too many memories?”

“Where do all minds go. What do dwarves dream? Gold? Silver?” Thranduil's voice was the rich murmur of a stream.

“Nothing,” Thorin answered.

“Nothing?”

“Time passes as we sleep, that is all. Perhaps that is why we sleep so little. Nothing is unpleasant.” Thorin had been tired, sinking lower into the pillows. He spared a thought for what the servants would find in the morning and realised he didn't care.

“Neither are many of my memories where the paths of my dreams tend to take, Thorin, son of Thrain,” Thranduil had replied, a voice that was as gentle as the west wind, his lips were its softest caress. “Nothing might be better sometimes, but perhaps you're simply too young for dreams.”

A year had passed. Beneath the ashes and dust, the air was sweetening with the scent of summer again. Thorin turned the elvish pin in his hand, letting the firelight catch its pattern. A year later, his body was greater, yet his heart seemed to have become smaller. All he wished now was to be that boy in Erebor again, stranger to regret or sorrow or shame. If he could dream, he would dream that Thranduil was still beside him, years of joy stretching boundless before them.

-=-=


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first meeting between Thorin and Thranduil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written early last year. I finally found the WIP document. Any resemblance to Desolation of Smaug is a happy coincidence.

In Thorin's twenty-third year, Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm of Mirkwood came for the first time in recent memory to Erebor. 

If it was a few hundred years ago, they would be housed outside the gates, but these were times of plenty when even the men of Dale found themselves guests inside the dwarven kingdom; King Thror was eager to show Erebor's wealth and his hospitality to an elven lord. 

Thorin's tutors had taught him history from books and stones and sometimes their own memories. Those whom had seen Thranduil before only said that Thranduil appeared elvish. Mahal knew that meaning best, they told him, as if he was still tangled in his mother's beard and would be content with the answer.

It was evening when Thranduil's herald came to the gates of Thror, King Under the Mountain. The elves would not pass through Dale, but the news of their coming to Erebor had flustered the keeper of keys, worried about too many strangers-- for men were always curious-- too close to their treasures. He complained, loudly, even as the artisans finished the decorations on the walls.

“I think our elvish guests can guard themselves against men well enough,”Thror said, amused. “We will receive them whenever they choose."

Still, they sent word to expect the elves near twilight as it had been the custom. According to the books, elves were secret as the shadows and preferred when the half-light prevailed under the glimmering stars. 

For once Thorin stood patient when readying for court. Aside from the broidered surcoat, his hauberk was gilded, his belt was heavy with gold and jewels, and he would have a sword. He looked into the mirror and was startled to greet the dwarf facing him in the glass; stern he seemed, like a high dwarf lord of tales. They had dressed as worthy allies to receive an Elf-King who fought and vanquished the shadows of Dol Guldor.

The deepest evening had fallen when the elves made their way through the corridors to the main hall, brightly lit in welcome. 

Thranduil looked at first the Arkenstone, then to the figures beside the king.

"Thorin, son of Thrain," Thror said.

So then standing next to the throne on the dais, Thorin, son of Thrain, looked upon Thranduil, King of Eryn Lasgalen for the first time. Crowned with a circlet of flowers, sixty-five hundred years had left no mark on a beardless face. Brows as dark as onyx, eyes living silver, as a statue of crystal he seemed, lighted from within, as cold and as fair as monument.

When Thranduil's glance fell on Thorin, the corner of his mouth lifted. As he tilted his golden head to greet Thorin, already taller than many of Durin's line for many generations, Thorin saw suddenly the countless years in those eyes, with memories and knowledge of lands beyond the earth. He grew abashed and hoped, as other dwarves his age had hoped before him, that his beard was long enough to show that he had more earth in his body than air. 

He held his own face steady, thinking of a quiet rock pool, undisturbed deep in the caves.

And yet, amusement rippled across Thranduil's face, gone so quickly that Thorin thought he imagined it. He bit his lip and fell in step behind his father as they went to the feast that waited for them.

They had delayed their dinner for their visitors. The tables were heavy with food. Thorin heard a happy sigh behind him.

Wine and conversation flowed. Elven voices were lilting even using the speech of Dale. Nevertheless, Thorin, who had never been at a loss for words, found himeslf so full of thoughts and questions that he had no words for the elf beside him. Not wishing to seem rude, he saved his staring for his plate.

"Prince Thorin, have you ever gone beyond your grandfather's realm?" 

The tables had chairs had been altered for comfort, but Thorin found himself oddly shy in answering: "I will," Thorin said. "As soon as my lord can spare me."

He ignored his father's frown. Dwarves did not go wandering afield unless they must for their living. Else, they stay at their ancient mansions and did their duties. 

"Where will you go? Are there still mines for dwarves to uncover? Kingdoms to found?"

"A mine could be delved in better ways, its finds better crafted and a kingdom could be defended better, but I shall know nothing of them if I stay."

"That would be a wonder," said Thranduil suddenly, "to see a dwarf wander of his free will." 

"He will not," Thrain said, his displeasure evident.

"I did not say to wander, milord," Thorin said, keeping his temper with difficulty, for he thought the elf was laughing at him. "My home is always here in Erebor and whereever I may travel, it would be for Erebor's sake."

"I've never met an adventuring dwarf." Thranduil took a sip of wine consideringly and said, "Though you may come close, if the world changes enough."

"I certainly hope not!" Thror cried. "All the world may change, but no dwarf of Erebor would adventure when they have wine and music in my halls."

The elves laughed and praised the wine accordingly. This vintage of Dorwinion wine was sweet with the promise of spring, full-bodied without cloyingness, but every mouthful burned down Thorin's throat. 

He knew Nar by his grandfather's side had been looking at him, worried, but it was easier to drink than to be polite when neither Thror nor Thrain seemed to want him to talk at all. 

The elf beside him, finding him silent, directed his attention elsewhere.

"Thorin," Nar said, after the cakes and confections had been eaten, his hand moving to cover Thorin's goblet so the attendant would not fill it, "shall we not have some music for elven guests?"

The elves had keen hearing. One of them called out from the end of the table: "Dwarves have music?" 

"Why do they think we make instruments?" Thorin muttered. "Guts and sinew have very little ornamental value." 

Thranduil, deep in conversation with his grandfather, suddenly laughed. "We've not all been Erebor before."

"Master elf, it's your first time to Erebor, you don't know the magic yet of our halls," Nar said and Thorin turned and was startled to find the elf who asked the question already beside them. 

"I didn't think dwarves have magic," she said, "but I'm fond of music and so's milord. We know that naugrm sing, yet I've never heard the music of your halls. A mere description from one of Erebor would be precious to me". She looked young, but then all elves did; perhaps she meant no insult- she was merely curious.

"A mere description?" Nar scoffed. "We're not so discourteous in Erebor. How can mere words compare to music and the dwarven arts? We cannot have our guests say that we neglect the rules of hospitality."

"I am at the service of my generous hosts," said the elf, clever eyes darting to the walls, the tapestry. 

"I will play for you," Thorin decided and asked someone to fetch his harp from his room. Some of the guests had already left, others lingered in the halls, in conversation or engaged in quiet games.

Nar directed them to the fireplace and they sat on the gilded benches. Thorin plucked the strings lightly at first, then tuned it and played at first a small melody, then began. He had lessons in rhythm and harmony, considered essential for the learning of history and instillation of discipline, but sometimes, the music removed history and rules altogether. Thorin travelled beyond the ringings of anvils, the summons to court- it was the admiring and the making of something beautiful and he seemed to exist in the notes themselves, composed at some forgotten time, but being remade for him and by him; all the ages at once recursive and ephemeral in each wordless phrase.

The talk arund them had grown quiet than silent at his playing. The music lingered, layered, and formed anew in the echoes even after his fingers stopped. The elves who had never been to Erebor considered the shape of the halls in wonder. Those that have smiled gently. Even Thrain was pleased. 

"I think I'm beginning to see," Thranduil said softly, "that the world might change but not always grow less."

It sounded like nonsense and Thorin was uncertain whether it was an insult. "A tree does not grow smaller." 

"No, not if it is healthy, and no misfortune befalls it."

Thorin had not thought he would be heard, but it was him Thranduil was answering. He would've answered further had not then questions pursued him to to explain the stones and the masonry of the dwarves.

-=-=

It was not until later, after looking into Dis and Frerin to tell them of the feasts as he had promised that their childish conversation prompted him to inquire where his guests were asleep. He met a harried looking steward in the corridors, who pointed at the balcony where Thranduil stood silhouetted against the moonlight.

Thorin was debating how to make himself known before Thranduil turned to look at him.

"I've come to admire the glasswork," Thorin said quickly. It was now true since he saw it. He had not yet devoted much time to crafts, but the engineering and the artistry of it was unlike anything he had seen in Erebor. "If you had not come, this would never would've been constructed. No dwarf has an interest sleeping in open air," 

"I will give you a secret, Prince Thorin," Thranduil said, his voice gentler than Thorin remembered from the feast. "I do not like it overmuch myself. But do not tell Thror, for this is a beautiful work, and I'd be foolish to scorn such hospitality."

Curious and so, heedless, Thorin continued, "We've always heard that elves of the forest preferred the open sky and considered caves and houses confining.

"I am not only an elf of the forest, Thorin son of Thrain," Thranduil said, raising an eyebrow. "Though you will not find many of the Eldar who could claim the same."

"Though you still prefer the sky,” Thorin said.

"I am admiring the stars,” Thorinduil said.

"Do you know all their names?" Thorin asked, glancing upward. 

"Yes, in all the tongues of elves and men. Though, of course, not dwarves."

Thorin marveled. For the summer sky was clear and the stars innumerable. "How many years must have you had-" he said, glancing upwards.

"It is very wearying."

"No,” Thorin said, straining his eyes to see the distant glitters, “to be able to gaze upon these wonders for so long."

Thranduil was silent. When Thorin turned around to see if he had offended-- perhaps elves unlike dwarves did not like to be reminded of great age -- Thranduil's expression startled him, for the face seemed suddenly as secret as mountains. The impression's gone in a moment and Thranduil was an elf again, kingly, but a creation of flesh and blood who smiled for he said, laughing, "Yes, they are wonders. The hour is late. Are you here to stay?”

"I've never slept under an open sky." Thorin blushed, abruptly aware of the implied liberty of his words, but Thranduil's gaze on him is as even.

"And you've a taste for new things, Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, that much I know. The couch is Erebor's. I am not so rude a guest to deny my host"

The platform was large; the craftsman had been overzealous, but there were subtle ladders in the inlay that allowed Thorin to climb up. 

And Thranduil named the stars: once in the speech of Dale, then in lilting Sindarin, then again in a tongue Thorin didn't recognize. 

His named also the stars Thorin couldn't see, but trust to exist for he had memories of their names from the books of scholars who fashioned glasses and instruments to see them. Though elves are taller, the world they see seemed in proportion more vast and perhaps deeper than that of dwarves. Thor carried the thought until sleep took him.

-=-=


End file.
